One might think that living out here promotes contemplation. And, I suppose, it does. In a way. But not like you’d think. H.D. Thoreau contemplated at Walden and, for the most part, that seemed to be the major function exercised there. He got good at it. But, for me, contemplation is a rarer thing not frequently experienced in the purest form. In fact, I seem to have very little time for it. Out here, I don’t live in my head.

I did in Vancouver. Some. I mean, of course I had to deal with the mundane chores of living in the city and earning a living but I also spent hours in the car and I confess to driving with only half my brain being occupied – if that. Most of the time I was driving I was thinking of other things. I was contemplative in the car.

In retrospect that was true of watching TV as well. I’d zone out. Of course, some part of me was conscious but, really, how much brain power is needed for watching TV? So much of the mental energy spent was quasi-contemplative at the very least.

Put another way; I thought a lot living in the city but I didn’t think I did. Ironic, don’t you think? (there it is again!).

One of the few places I found that my mind didn’t wander was the golf course. That may have been a hint that I could ‘let go’ when outside in nature but I didn’t really see it that way at the time. I was just walking and hitting a little ball and sharing some goofy jokes now and then with my playing partners. Good clean fun. No thought required. None given. Rare.

Even though pure contemplation time is even less out here – one has to focus when using a chainsaw or outboard motor after all – when you do choose to do so, you can do it like a pro. It is quiet. Distractions can easily be eliminated. And I am practically instantly in a Buddhist-like zone whenever I ‘stop to smell the roses’ or watch the whales go by. It just happens. It is almost spiritual.

I can even get it when puzzling out a simple mechanical problem or doing some plodding-but-not-so-heavy labour. I can slip into a comfortable zone. Like Thoreau.

Really heavy labour doesn’t do it tho. I am very much wishing for something else when engaged in a cement work, for instance. I loathe it. I have not transcended heavy labour. No Zen zone and concrete for me. I am just thinking of ‘getting ér done and getting out!‘.

The best time for me? I can lay in bed after awakening for up to an hour and feel the breeze coming in the open window with the faint sounds and smells of the sea and the nearby forest. I just lay there and think. It is glorious! No interruptions, no unpleasant noise, no worries, no schedules, no responsibilities…………..even the effects of gravity are lessened when horizontal.

It’s great.

Gordon Campbell was recently appointed something special to Britain by Stephen Harper. How is it that a BC boy with a drunk driving charge and a penchant for spending money on celebrations while bullying and lying to everyone all the time (and selling off our resources and infrastructure) is a good choice for international diplomacy? Or for anything, actually?

Ooooh……I was getting mad just thinking about it.

So, I wrote some more. I went on a tear over that appointment and the CBC not doing any real reporting. On anything. But I won’t bore you with that. The waste of time that is the CBC is a book that should be written!

But before I quit writing the rant-on-everything that I erased, I brought in the bafflegab Osama bin Laden death and at-sea burial, the all-too-neat felling of the World Trade Centre and I was well on my way to the $36 billion debacle of Canada purchasing fighter jets. I was even going to get to the ‘lost’ millions spent on ‘G-20 security’ that was never accounted for (Auditor General) and then I was going to segue into the stupidity of watching anything to do with industrial hockey when I realized – all of a sudden – that all of that was the reason I was now more interested in worms.

I gotta hand it to Harper, Gordo, the CBC and the BIG LIE MACHINE. It is because of them I live up here and enjoy worms. I never would have pursued this kind of lifestyle without ém.

Our garden seems to be doing pretty good but I read somewhere that worms were a good addition. And so we got some.

I got the first batch of worms last year the hard way. Digging. Sally and I went over to an abandoned homestead and dug in the area that was their garden. We assumed correctly that there were worms there and we ferreted about until we had a handful. And I mean a real handful of all-worm, not half and half with dirt. It is much harder than it sounds to find a good hand-full-of-worms but we thought we had enough. We went home and put them in the compost.

About a week later I dug around the compost looking for the worms. They were gone! The little blighters had made a break for it and were on the lam, so to speak. It was discouraging. But I adjusted emotionally and we carried on.

But this year, I had this desire for worms again but just didn’t feel like digging for them. Enter: Garry (sic) the Worm guy (www.redwormsbac.com). Garry (sic) sent me two pounds of red wrigglers by courier to a friend in CR. I picked up the worms with the Chinese guests and they rode on their lap all the way home (the worms rode, the Chinese provided the laps).

And today, while Sal and the kids went to the local school for a show-and-tell (each other to each other), I built a worm house. Wet shredded paper on the bottom, layer-on the worms and dry shredded paper on top with a bit of compost material.

“I don’t think you did it right”, said Sal when she came home.

“What’s wrong?”

“I dunno. It just doesn’t look right.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. How can worms-in-a-box look right or wrong? Was Sal a worm in a previous life? Who does she know that I don’t connected to the worm crowd?

“Waddya talkin’ about?”

“All I am saying is that, if they all die, it is your fault!”

So now I am worried sic. And all I wanted was to have a box of happy worms.

Sometimes things just work out!……..beauty, eh?

Begonia and the girls swept off the AC jet in Vancouver on a delayed flight and they just made the Coast Mountain Air connection by minutes. Last ones on. They arrived at the CR airport on time, I bundled them in to the car and we headed to the ferry. The Queen was cramming the last few cars on the stern end when we pulled into the empty lot and zoomed across to immediately board. We were the the third-from last to get on. Turned off the engine at the same time (it seemed) as the ferry left. It just doesn’t get any better than that!

Typical arrival, boats, rocks, kelp, slipping and sliding. And dogs. And then a great meal.

But it turns out that these people had learned to sleep well on planes! Egads! They just weren’t tired. I was exhausted and could hardly wait to retire but we chatted and chatted and then they went on their computers for another hour or so (doing schoolwork, no less!). Lights out at 1:00 AM. I leaned over and whispered to Sal, “Maybe you should take them on the longest hike tomorrow and throw in the mountain climb as well.”

The kids are pretty funny. I swear I weigh as much as all three of them combined. When we met at the airport, there were two ‘obviously’ Chinese backpacks on the luggage rack and so I picked them up. I switched the two to one hand so that I could grab the next one coming. The girls were shrieking, “Ooooooohhhhh so heavy! Cannot lift! Ooohhhhh”. I was sure they were kidding. But when we got to the end-of-the-road where I keep the boat for our passage to the island, I had to transfer the packs to their backs because I was carrying other things (cooler, box of worms, bag of building supplies, etc). As I placed each pack of about 25 pounds on each girl’s back, they visibly sagged and staggered. They struggled along the relatively flat path for the 100 or so feet and collapsed in a heap in the boat (after I helped them step in).

Twenty five pounds is probably close to 1/3 their weight and, lacking any musculature whatsoever, must make it difficult. Sheesh. The kids are lovely. Smart, fun and eager to learn. But lumberjacks they are not!

Minnie, Nicky, Catherine and Begonia (their teacher) arrive late today from the CHMS school in Hong Kong. They will have been in transit for over 20 hours although part of that is waiting at YVR for their plane to Campbell River.

They will get a few hours of the Vancouver Airport as their first taste of Canada……then me, Campbell River, the Campbell River ferry and an hour or so of being jammed into a Pathfinder going down a windy, rough and dusty logging road. Typically, the kids are OK with all that although this time it will be almost dusk by the time we get home. It is the sight of the last steep hill and the waiting boat that first freaks them out. A little.

I get all the gang in the boat and we head out to our island and, if the weather is rough, they get sprayed. That usually wakes them up! Then we arrive at a distant and rocky shore and we are greeted on the beach by Sally and two dogs in what must seem like to them, the middle of nowhere. But, so far they usually do OK. They are coping. Mind you, dogs are things to be very, very wary of and they show their concern on their face and through their body language – their luggage is always kept between them and the dogs.

But it is the scramble up the barnacle and kelp-covered rocks with their baggage in tow that is the first real test. Sal tries to ease them in to it but, really, she, too, is on the beach with a suitcase or two and her feet are slipping. How much easing can she do?

By the time I get back from docking the boat, the gang has been introduced to the boat-shed-cum-temporary-accommodation that will be their home for the week. They put on a good face but I can usually sense the shock setting in. At this point, their eyes and actions suggest that an alternative would be worth discussing. But they are too polite to bring it up.

And then Sal feeds them.

Sal is a great cook and a good meal coupled with a total of twenty two or more hours in transit makes even the most freaked-out guest suddenly sleepy. So, we send them off to bed and consider day one complete.

Day two is when we separate the lumberjacks from the pantywaists. When that is sorted, Sal takes the lumberjacks on an adventure and me and the pantywaists do something ‘nice’ like play with the dogs, set up their computer or sit around and read. Sometimes I teach them to chop wood. Usually one day with me is enough to convert everyone into lumberjacks and I am basically free after that except for the support chores that I try to get done while everyone else is being a lumberjack, hiker, oyster-gatherer, school-visitor, yoga-doer, boat-rider, mountain climber or kayaker.

We will be busy for the next week.

All day Saturday: baking and ‘prepping’ for our guests arrival. Sunday: book club and happy hour guests. Monday: shopping down in Comox at the new Costco to ‘fill up’ the larder/freezer/fridge and ‘picking up’ the two monster winches and loading them ourselves into the back of the Pathfinder. Tuesday through Thursday: work at the bunkhouse plus one social visit with the prawn guys squeezed in if possible. And Sal is cleaning everything because the ‘kids’ are coming (from Hong Kong).

Projects: lower funicular, garden table centre, new winch placement – all currently on ‘hold’.

“Gee, Dave, now that you are retired and live way out in the country and all, what the heck do you do all day? Get bored?” The answer is hard to explain except to say, “Omygawd! There is never enough time. I just want to sleep-in a few times!”

“Yeah, right! My guess? You and Sal have matching hammocks and never get out of them. Hahahah!”

The thing is – we’ve never been busier. Well, OK, we have been busier but we are certainly as busy as we can manage. Don’t forget, all those ‘taking care of the household chores’ is a much longer and more difficult task out here as well. It seems we are always doing chores and such to keep the old homestead running. Being busy is not the challenge, finding time for relaxing and goofing-off is! And, when we do find the time, it is not usually ‘together’.

Mind you, I still find a bit of time for the relaxing/goofing-off needs (I blog) more than Sally but she sure doesn’t (she logs!). If she has a spare minute, she and the dogs go play in the lagoon. And that requires a climb up and down a 125 foot, 30 degree slope just for starters. Then they make her fetch sticks!

At 63 I am slowing down, I admit it freely (or more accurately put: I want to slow down!). But if I compare myself to the local guys my age, I am about ‘normal’ in the energy and work-output department. Sal, of course, is in a department all her own although, to be fair, all the women out here seem to work pretty hard. I have never ‘bought in’ to the social stereotype that claims women have it so much harder but now that Sal and I are side-by-side, I have to admit that it is true. She simply works more than I do.

I like to think I am still useful and helpful, tho. If it weighs more than 50 pounds, I usually do it (altho, not everytime by any means!). If it weighs more than 80 pounds then you can be 98% sure I do it (but there are exceptions). Over 100 pounds, I definitely do it – but I then do it with Sal. Over 200 pounds, we try not to do it. And I sometimes make sushi and wash up now and then. OK, I admit to vacuuming on blue moons. But there is no denying it. Sal never stops and I am hard to start.

Anecdote: one day we were unloading a huge pile of supplies and taking it to Read. I also had to assemble the inflatable boat so we could do it. It was cold. It was wet. It was raining. And I was in a hurry to get it done before darkness set in. I jumped out of the car, unloaded the trailer and assembled the boat. I launched it and filled it with crap. In the meantime, my usually trusty partner had taken her ‘sweet time’ to find her glove linings, put on some chapstick, fix her hair, find her hat, change her boots and powder her nose.

I was not pleased with the division of labour.

When she deigned to show up, the job was virtually all done except for the 125/135 pound outboard motor that still had to be lifted from the trailer, carried down the ramp and placed on the stern of the boat. I had left that to the last because it was a two person job with one of us (me) having to be in waders.

“Nice of you to show up”, I said more than just a little sarcastically.

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying that you look all comfy and cute but there is a bit of work to do out here!“

With that, Sally bore a hole through my head with her glare while walking slowly towards the trailer. She didn’t take her steely eyes off me. Then, with a mere flick of her upper body, she lifted the entire outboard and strode off the trailer and into the water with it. Defiantly, she slammed the machine onto the boat and said, “Well, you just gonna sit there or are you gonna get in and fasten it to the transom?”

Sally weighs the same as the motor. Maybe a bit less! I just stood there, gobsmacked. How is that even possible?

What do we do all day? I dunno…………..ask Sal.

It has occurred to me that the ‘move’ from town to a rural setting is a somewhat vague and confusing concept for many. It is not that people don’t understand moving to or living in a rural setting, it is rather the transition process that seems so nebulous; what steps are involved, what pitfalls to avoid, etc? So, I thought I’d pass on a few tips.

First off, one has to let go the notion of ease and convenience. It is not that anything in the move is that hard but rather that your routine, your systems, your familiarities and your resources will all be utilized differently and some will be taxed beyond expectations. Everything will be disrupted at the very least. Your regular square dance lessons? Starbucks with Linda? Season tickets to anything; even your favourite TV show – all that will ‘go by the boards’.

Here is how everybody’s system changes, for instance: Cars don’t work on dirt roads. Not for long. You may think you do not need a truck or an SUV. And, you may be right (some people out here make it work for awhile). Most people come to realize that, at the very least, a Subaru Outback or a small SUV is pretty important if not essential. So, accept it. The Miata has to go.

And that is just the vehicle you drive. So, the tip: start looking now for a low mileage, 199X Toyota 4Runner or equivalent. 4×4 is not optional. A small utility trailer (second hand) will be a Godsend.

Another thing is schedule. Things happen less punctually the further from the city core you venture. Even the ferry system. By the time you get to Prince George, they celebrate Xmas in January. In the Yukon, they are a year behind. Haida Gwaai has been lost somewhere in the time space continuum. So, the tip: allow for days to get done in what normally takes hours at home. It is just the way it is.

So, the tip: don’t plan on selling the house in Maple Ridge in June and moving to Spusm in July so as to ‘assemble’ your ‘kit’ cabin in August and still make your daughter’s wedding in September. Not gonna happen.

Here’s a shock: all your ‘stuff’ just ain’t worth much. Not in utility nor moolah. It is certainly not worth anywhere near what you paid for it or even insured it for. More than that, much it is not-so-useful in the country anyway. Lawnmower? Hot-tub? Speedboat? Bicycles? Big screen TV? Fancy dining room suite? 42 piece Greco-Roman-style bedroom ensemble?

Most people go small when they go rural and that, in itself, is a determinant for much of what we carry around. When it doesn’t work in the cabin and you are 300 miles west of Merrit, there is no market for a nice French Provincial 12-seat dining suite complete with China cabinet and sideboard. Sell it in Vancouver and remember, storing it just adds to the overall loss.

Tip: Let go the ‘stuff’ (Inside tip: saddle the kids with it. To them it is an heirloom (hahaha)). When we moved up here, we put stuff in storage. The manager asked, “How long?” Sal answered, “Well, we are going to build our own house on Read all by ourselves so I dunno, maybe six months?” He said, “I’ll write you in for a year and a half. Call me a few months in advance when you want another year.”

Storage cost us $1800. Value of all the ‘stuff’? Considerably less than priceless and probably less than $1800.

Mind you, keep your tools, keep your kitchen utensils and keep anything that is strongly built. May as well ‘chuck’ Ikea. May as well ‘chuck’ desktop computers, suits and ties and briefcases and Florsheim shoes. Chuck ‘glass’ furniture.

Keep winches.

Tip: Plan way, way ahead. I was ‘preparing’ for a move out of the city a year or so before I knew we would move. It was not foresight, it was instinct. I had no idea what the future plan was but I ‘felt’ that it would find me somewhere else. So, I explored my possibilities and prepared where I could. That turned out to be a good move (rare for me, I know). It may also have been a self-fulfilling prophecy. Whatever.

Then, when we were ready mentally (we still are not ready physically, skill-wise and we are still learning all the time), we made a leap of faith. And we landed on our feet. We were lucky.

But, if I had to do it all over again knowing what I know now, I would be able to do it easier and better. If this blog content piques your interest at all, I’ll write some more about actually ‘doing it’. If not, just ask for more stuff on ravens.

I confess to a quirk. I have a few, it seems. But this one is really weird: every now and then I want to buy something. I thought getting too many winches would satisfy that latest manifestation of the urge but it was not to be. I am now looking at an old diesel engine.

This is a weird quirk, you see, because I generally hate shopping and really don’t want any more stuff. Honest. I am greatly relieved by the lesser amount of stuff in our lives right now and all that such stuff entails (buying, using, storing, cleaning, fixing, etc.). I really do not need more stuff.

But sometimes I weaken. I give in to my urges. It can get messy.

Which is OK, I guess. A little weakness now and then is only human. The worst that comes of it is that I have too many winches. How bad is that? What if it was wenches? OMYGAWD! (there but for the grace of an ‘e’ could have been ‘I’?)

But the problem is not just the urge to buy. The problem syndrome starts with general interest, focused curiosity and progresses to obsessive research and the resulting relentless hunt (often accompanied by heavy breathing at this stage). I am thinking that this so-called urge is really just the primal hunter-gatherer instinct writ modern and inappropriate. Getting on E-bay is like entering the forest. Craigslist is fishing the seas. AAARRRGGHH!!!! It is a ‘man-thing’. Kinda.

I gotta stop.

I have no idea how I got there but I found a 12 hp diesel with reduction gear for a good price. The pulse quickened. All senses went to high alert! I just have to trust the pictures, drive for a very long day, heave 500 pounds of dead weight into my utility trailer and then bring it back home to the logging road, beach, boat, haul-out (winches come in handy here!) and then store the damn thing until I build a boat.

“It’s like huntin’ moose, eh?”

Yeah. You read that right. I might build a boat.

It’s another urge. I could have a problem.

And Sal, poor thing, really does have a problem.

Hmmm, it seems that more raven pieces are, in fact, desired by at least 5% of my readership (Annette is one of the 17 and this blog is in answer to her request). So, a raven update:

Jack and Liz had four kids this season (we call them ‘raisins’ since we don’t know or care about the proper nomenclature). Wild ravens usually only have two offspring annualy. If they are doing well in their world, they might have three. Our spoiled rotten buddies had four!

One of them is a bit of a runt. His feathers are coming in a bit late, he is a bit smaller and he just looks a bit goofy in a ravenesque kind of way. A raven geek, if you will. But he’ll be fine.

Jack still feeds him direct sometimes and he is flying pretty well although a severe bank is not yet part of his aviation skills repertoire. When he attempts a quick turn, he falls from his loftier elevation and has to catch himself half-way down. It is hard to watch sometimes – especially the first few times. But he is still in the air and seems to be getting the hang of it.

The other three are ‘good to go’ and I suspect that they will be shown the door as soon as the geek is ready. The parents are quite egalitarian about that sort of thing. ‘When they go, they go together’ seems to be the rule. So, right now we have six raven and soon there will two. It is the way it is.

Sal and I harvested a small pail of clams from the lagoon this afternoon. She is going to make a pot of her should-be-famous clam chowder. OMYGAWD it is good!

She has been baking all day in anticipation of our first group of guests this summer. We’ve had one or two people come this year already but this is the first whole group (numbering four) of three students and their teacher – all from our ‘pet’ school in Hong Kong, CHMS. They come Thursday.

And so we got some prawns in. The clams and oysters keep nicely where they are and we have to do a big shop on Monday but, generally speaking, we are ready. It will be fun. Always is.

One thing is for sure – they will be quieter to live with than the ravens!

So, the ravens will leave, the students will come and we’ll have balance in the neighbourhood once again. And maybe a little peace.

Our neighbourood (all 500 square miles of ocean and separate islands) has a newsletter. It is called the SNOTRAG and it is published every month by the intrepid Judith-of-Calm-waters fame. (Judith undertands the Marshall McCluan premise that she who controls the media controls the world.)

And so it is that the SNOTRAG defines our world. World? Think: ‘POND’. But it can be a good read.

If you wonder about my version of life Off-The-Grid you can always subscribe to the SNOTRAG and read the news unabridged from the viewpoint of J-of-CW. She has good sources. Mine aren’t so good (just me). The challenge: to get a subscription. Rags are issued on a need-to-know basis. Those not connected by history or family to the area are not usually eligible.

“They don’t need to know!”

Put another way: the SNOTRAG is an underground publication.

I find all this ironic in a ‘marketing-by-playing-hard-to-get’ kind of way. Lots of people want on the S-rag subscription list and are refused. The SnotRag is very exclusive. Ergo, more want on.

I, on the other hand, virtually beg a readership. I am embarrassed to say I even let out an involuntary ‘whoop’ of delight when I noticed my followers had increased from 16 to 17 a couple of weeks ago. I am the opposite to exclusive. I am for sale cheap.

Well, for free, actually (I am even willing to subsidize for hardship cases. Bribe, if you must.).

Price, however, doesn’t seem to matter. The Rag has an irresistible cachet. For me, fame is an elusive specter.

Of course, It (Dispatches from Off-the-Grid) is/are primarily just about me. And, admittedly, I am biased/focused/occupied and writing in my own favour. On most things, anyway. In fact, I am completely and totally swayed by my own point of view most of the time. I am helpless in front of me and almost always side with myself. But, it’s a turn-off it seems. Who woulda known?

But it is not all my fault. Sally can (and does) make necessary changes to our things mostly whenever she wants, so I am not totally responsible for the complete and total me and/or the opinion and point of view of me you see in this blog. I am sure you understand (if you are male, anyway).

In other words: We can all blame Sal for much of this nonsense.

Put another way: I am not totally responsible for me or for what I do anymore. I need to be vetted. Believe it or not, this blog was edited and great swathes of content were deemed ‘unpublishable’.

“You can’t say that! Are you crazy? Stick with the squirrels and the logging stuff. A little on the garden, perhaps. Keep politics, people and any sensitive subjects for publishing later when it has all blown over! Do a raven piece. Everybody likes raven pieces.”

If you are still not clear about this form of censorship, contact my power-of-attorney/official rep: SJT Davies at SallyD@Hughes.net for further information/and/or permission for………whatever.

Just be careful.

Remember: resistance is futile!

So, anyway, for balanced news off the grid, subscribe to the SNOTRAG. I can’t give you the address. Nor will I pass on your name. You have to have ‘connections’ and mine aren’t influential enough.

(Hint: one of the Victoria CBC news-readers may be able to get you on.)

It costs $10.00 annually to be an official ‘SNOT’ member (the ‘A’ list) and, although many of you may qualify in every other respect of snottiness, money-on-the-barrelhead is required for admission to the newsletter-receiving club. Just write to: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX@hotmail.com and she’ll sign you up.

Maybe.

I doubt it.

Me? I am already in trouble just for telling you this!